


Visit From the Devil

by thepouringrain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Murder, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Reichenbach, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 17,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepouringrain/pseuds/thepouringrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time that Sebastian Moran met Jim Moriarty the man was in disguise. These various personas soon become a regular fixture, just as Sebastian does in Moriarty's life. From Jim Zucco to Richard Brook- will Sebastian ever manage to fight his way past these illusions in order to meet whoever Jim Moriarty really is?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Identity and Illusion

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slight rework of the fic that i posted on my ff.net account a few months ago.
> 
> If Moriarty's seems seriously ooc in the first chapter, keep reading because it's meant to be like that.
> 
> This work is unbeta'd, so if you spot any mistakes or possible improvements please let me know.

I was sitting alone in the corner of the room, a half empty bottle of beer on the table alongside my night’s winnings. By this point in the evening I was so drunk that I had no hope of winning any card game, even if it was solitaire, yet reckless enough to bet everything from my shirt to my shoes on the outcome. The people here would usually take advantage of someone in my state, but they were fully aware that being drunk didn’t prevent me from throwing a punch or shattering a glass and unsurprisingly there aren’t many bastards who would happily take being half-blinded, even for twenty-five grand. 

“Mind if I sit down?” A ridiculous Chelsea accent asked. 

I grunted in reply, not looking up as I rolled my next cigarette. 

“I’m not really sure what I’m doing here, to be honest I was only looking for girls,” He said, trying to catch my eye. The statement was quickly followed by a high pitched, nervous laugh.

“My name is James.” 

I looked up, noticing that he had held out his hand across the table to me, but I didn’t shake it. I looked him over: he was wearing an expensive watch, the top button of his shirt was undone, his hair had a stupid quiff at the front and he was wearing an Eton blazer that was now slightly to small for him. This annoyed me, the man looked about the same age as me and yet here he was still trying to use the school he went to as a way to get connections. I couldn’t exactly judge him seeing as I had gone to the same posh prick school but at least I’d done something with my life afterwards. Well I had until now. I’m not just some little fucker whose only accomplishment is that his parents paid for his education, which he’s now wasting in sordid bars and back-alley gambling rooms. Well, I wasn’t. 

I sighed, resigned to the fact that this pathetic man was now my equal.

“Sebastian,” I muttered abruptly. 

“You know what, I think I recognise you. You were on the rowing team weren’t you? At uh…” He motioned down at his tie with a drunken smirk, mumbling something into his whiskey glass. A chatty drunk then, no wonder he couldn’t find a woman. 

“Can you match this?” He said suddenly, pulling three large stacks of notes from his pockets. 

Although I tried to not react, my eyes did widen in surprise.

“Well,” He drawled, “How else do you expect to attract an audience?” 

He was right. Heads were already turning towards us from across the bar. Like hyenas, as though they could smell the money. 

“Got to get the girls somehow,” James sniggered. 

I pocketed the unlit cigarette, and began dealing the cards.


	2. Shock Wave

“You little fuck!” I roared, not half an hour later.

I swung at him, leaning in my full body weight, but he dodged the blow with unexpected and remarkable agility. 

“…S-security!” He yelped, kicking the chair from behind him which clattered to the ground. 

A few of the braver men that had been standing round the table watching the game grabbed my arms and held me back. From what they had seen this James had won fairly. Expletives streamed from my mouth as two bouncers dragged me from the bar, one of them receiving a bloody nose from my fist in the process. James remained at the table, feigning innocence but looking flustered… and thirty grand richer. 

Out by the bins in the wintry night air, I tried to clear the warm fuzzy drunken feeling from my brain. Tried to fully realise that I was now broke and within a few hours I would most likely be homeless. I owed two months rent on my flat in Mayfair and with an eviction notice looming I had meant to win enough money to pay it back tonight. I had done, until that ludicrous man had cheated me out of everything. I had meant to take him for everything he had, to wipe that horrid smile from his face and to make him actually face a problem for the first time in his posh little life. I’m not sure what happened. I was winning and then in the space of a minute I’d lost. He’d been clueless but within a matter of seconds this brilliant hand of cards was laid out on the table. 

I went to light my cigarette, only to find the flint had run out in my lighter. I tossed it away angrily, the smash of cheap plastic not fully satisfying my resentment. 

“You should invest in a proper lighter if you’re going to keep up that disgusting habit.” 

I spun around, unnerved. 

“Hullo Moran,” The Chelsea riff had gone from his voice along with the school tie to be replaced with an intense and dangerous 

Irish lilt and a designer suit. ‘James’ stood behind me, hands in his coat pockets and eyes staring menacingly at me. It was undoubtedly the same man who’d sat opposite me earlier, yet everything from his clothes, to his voice, his posture and his gait had changed. Yes, the clothes were still expensive, but they now looked refined. Yes, the voice was still drawling and his stance arrogant, but now it carried authority and command. 

I glared at him, trying not to feel intimidated by someone at least six inches shorter than myself. 

“Does someone want their money back, or do you just want a light?” He asked, putting on a puppy dog voice as he drew the cash from one pocket and a gold cased lighter from the other. He smirked wildly, not giving me a chance to reply as he flicked open the lid of the lighter and ignited the flame. Holding the money up, he set it on fire.

“Oops!” He said in mock surprise, avidly watching the paper as it curled in the heat. Throwing it to the ground theatrically as it blackened to a burning ball, he stepped forward towards me. 

“I’d say that I never play by the rules but it’s a bit cliché. True yes, but incredibly dull,” He said cryptically, his head swaying on his shoulders as the light from the flames danced across his face. 

“So you cheated?” I asked petulantly.

“I’m not a conjuror Moran, I’m not a magician. No, I’m a genius.” 

“You said you’d never played before.” 

“You said you’d help me along.”

“You still won.”

“Well, it didn’t take me long to get the hang of it… pretty boring really,” He shrugged his shoulders, looking sulky, “Now what should we play next?” 

“What, what do you mean?”

“I’m looking for a game to play Moran and I want you to play it with me.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about drug cartels, I’m talking about assassinations. I’m talking about smuggling rings and serial killings and black market art dealings. In short Moran I’m talking about crime.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m really very bored and you seem to be in need of a new place to stay. Why not come and work for me?”

The offer was met by a surprised silence. For a moment I could have sworn the man looked anxious. This worried expression was gone in an instant of course, his face stiffened once more and he resumed his solid, soulless stare. 

“Moran… don’t keep me waiting!” He said, pouting slightly, his voice dragging over my name. 

“How do you know who I am?”

“Sebastian boy I know everything about you.” 

“Then prove it.” 

“Oh I thought you wanted to know how I knew. Never mind, I don’t suppose it really matters. Yes, I do know all about you, I could tell you all about your drug addict sister but who really cares, then there the power struggle between you and your domineering father, that’s fairly interesting. Sebastian Moran, I know that you’re an army sniper who was asked to retire just before the end of your sixth straight tour in Afghanistan and before that you’d spent eighteen months fighting in Iraq. You’re trained in precision marksmanship, fieldcraft, infiltration, observation, field surgery and goodness knows what other rubbish. I know that you’re the best man for the job.”

“What job?”

“To be my right hand man and fulfil my every whim. I need a sniper Sebastian darling and I heard you’re a rather good shot.” 

“You heard right.”

“Is that a yes? You’ll take the job? Of course it is.” 

“Does it mean I get my money back?” 

“What and let you go back to your cushy drunkard Conduit Street life? No, I think a night or two out on the streets will do you good, sober you up a bit… you’ve really let yourself go you know.” 

He spun on his heel, pulling out his phone as he walked away. 

“It’s January!” I yelled at him. 

“That’s true,” He said thoughtfully, pausing for a moment, “You’d better take my coat,” He said, pulling it off and throwing it at me in some false gesture of generosity. 

“Sleep well Sebastian.”


	3. Fault Line

I walked towards Regent Street, the fault line between Mayfair and Soho. 

I had wanted to go back to my flat, hoping to grab a few possessions and sneak out via the fire escape but it seemed the bailiffs had already been to visit as my security code to get in the building was no longer valid. So here I was on the streets of London, with nothing but my phone, my army dog tags, a cigarette, an empty wallet and a coat that was several sizes to small for me. 

I scrolled through the contacts list on my phone, but it was pretty pointless. In all honesty I had no-one to call, no-one who cared. At the age of 34, I hadn’t tailored a single lasting relationship with another person. My family were at the very least dysfunctional, school friends forgotten and colleagues… well they were still away getting blown to pieces in Afghanistan. 

At least I didn’t have to admit to anyone why I was back in London. At least I didn’t have to face the shame of the fact that I was sent home. Not through injury, not for misconduct, fuck I don’t even know why they asked me to retire. Potential reasons had been crossing my mind ever since I was sent home and one thought always lingered: was I not good enough? I was starting to hate myself for it. I felt inadequate. I’d fucked up a lot of things in my life, but never my work. My work was sacred to me. It was everything I had lived for, everything I had literally fought for and it had come to an end. 

I hadn’t really gotten back into civilian life; I thought to myself as I boarded a bus, having pick pocketed someone of their ticket whilst standing at the bus stop. This brief step into normalcy, if only for five stops made me realise that I had been avoiding all of this. The expensive luxury of my Mayfair apartment, the decadent stupor of drunken nights in card clubs was all to avoid the fact that I Sebastian Moran was an ordinary citizen leading an ordinary life once more. 

I hate being ordinary. 

And now this, I thought to my self as I settled down on the hard, damp concrete ground, surrounded by Greater London suburbia. Well, settled wouldn’t really be the word for it; huddled is a more accurate description. As time dragged by my head began to clear as the alcohol drained from my bloodstream. The nerve connections telling me just how cold I felt began to work once more and I was soon shivering violently. I’d laid his coat over me; it smelt of exotic warmth from the traces of cologne on the collar. It was bizarrely comforting and despite the fact that I was feeling fairly vulnerable lying on a street corner unarmed, I managed to sleep lightly for an hour or so before waking up to the cloudy light of dawn. 

My back has aching and my hands numb when I woke up so I decided it was best to get moving. As I staggered up my bones were so stiff that it felt as though I’d been lying there for fifty years. I crossed the road to the 24 hour convenience store, shoplifting a new cigarette lighter. I walked along the streets smoking my one cigarette; the heat warmed my hands slightly and the smoke dulled the hunger that my senses had begun to inform me of.

My mind returned to the mysterious man who had gotten me into this situation, who had driven my life to the brink within moments of meeting me. The man was insane, that was clear enough. But he was a genius, I could tell that too. Nobody beats Sebastian Moran at cards that easily- not even supposed criminal masterminds, and believe me I’ve played against a few.  
Our brief conversation outside of the club had been more intoxicating than any liquor that was to be found inside. I’d found myself tripping over everything he said as he ran circles round me with apparent ease in a haze of wit, danger and vitality. His words danced about in my head even now, my consciousness finally settling on three in particular: I want you.


	4. Winter Sunshine

I sat on a park bench, unsuccessfully trying to enjoy the midday glimpse of winter sunshine. Three days had almost passed since meeting… that little shit? I didn’t even know his name and yet I still held out hope that I would soon be seeing some sign of him. My lack of sleep hadn’t dulled my mixed sense of anticipation and apprehension. Maybe I wasn’t as brave as I’d always thought I was, this man was willing to truly test me and for the first time I felt fear. 

One message received from a withheld number.

I opened the text.

36 Savile Row, 14:00

I leapt from my seat in exhilaration. Something, finally, had happened. 

I blended in among the busy crowds of Soho, but the closer I got to Mayfair the more I stood out. However, it wasn’t until I walked into the pristine, elegant shop and saw the downright alarmed look on the shop assistant’s face that I fully realised that sleeping rough for three nights meant that I was now an unshaven, filthy wreck. 

I stood there awkwardly, until another man walked in from the back of the shop with a knowing look on his face. 

“Mr Moran, am I right? Come through, come through,” He said courteously, “May I offer you some refreshment?” He asked as we stepped into one of the back rooms of the shop. A silver tray was laden with a decadent tea service. I took a seat by the table, taking a biscuit whilst the man poured me a cup of tea. I took one large gulp before setting the cup down and ignoring it, trying not to look too ravenous. I glanced around the room; it was small but neat and stylish. I still half expected the slight man to pull out a gun at any moment though. However, he simply picked up a tape measure which seemed pretty harmless- in his hands that is- so I stood up on the stool he’d placed in the centre of the room and he began taking my measurements, working swiftly and delicately. 

I felt quite like a young boy getting measured up for school uniform once more. But the tailor wasn’t talking down to me in a patronizing voice to me now; a reverential silence filled the room instead. 

It was quite likely that these measurements would be wrong, what with my shrunken frame after spending days only eating the occasional sandwich in the various cafes which I’d managed to slip out of without paying. I didn’t say anything him though, not being aware of how much this man actually knew about me or my situation. Perhaps it was just paranoia but I also felt that- if this man did know what was going on- anything I did say would be immediately passed on. I wasn’t willing to give someone else ammunition without having them within my own shooting range so I remained silent as he finished measuring my arm length and wrist width. 

“That’s all Sir,” He said, prompting me to step back off the stool. It felt like I was still up there floating inches of the ground though, the new address of ‘Sir’ having inflated my ego immensely. 

“I can take that for you Sir,” He said, holding out his hand towards the small coat that I was still clutching. 

I deliberated, unsure whether I was supposed to give it to him or not. 

“Boss’ orders,” He elaborated and I handed it over to him.

At this point I was tempted to ask further questions but then I supposed that this had told me enough. If the ‘boss’ was asking for his coat back then hopefully he wasn’t planning on leaving me in the lurch like this for another night. I had a feeling a visit from the devil himself would follow shortly.


	5. Gifts

I was right. At 11:30 that night I got another text.

Get in the car.

With impeccable timing, a Jag pulled up on the pavement in front of me, another nondescript, smartly dressed man stepping out in order to open the door for me. 

My bones had stiffened in the cold of the night and I was struggling to pull myself up from the ground when I was distracted by another text. 

Hurry up. People are staring.

It was true, the juxtaposition of the expensive, well-polished car with myself- the shivering, stumbling stray- was causing almost everyone that passed along the road to incline their heads toward us. 

I was driven to a hotel, the foyer was quiet and the clock behind the front desk told me that it was almost midnight. I was handed over a key card immediately by the receptionist without even having to inquire. 

My room was three floors up. I decided to take the stairs as I didn’t have any bags to worry about and I didn’t really want to be meeting anyone in the lift in my scruffy state. The lights turned on automatically as I opened the door to my room, illuminating a modern-looking hotel suite. I stepped inside to look around. On the bed I found a brand new, neatly pressed suit. I paused and stared blankly at it’s designer label, feeling so tired that all I wanted to do was lie down right next to it and sleep for days but I felt my phone buzz in my pocket for a third time.

Do I really have to take you through this step by step? I’ve got better things to be doing. Wash and dress. 

Not only was it unnerving how the receptionist had recognised me instantly, now this man seemed to be watching my every move and almost reading my very thoughts. This certainly made me self-conscious when clumsily doing up my tie, watching my out of practice fingers fumbling forgetfully in the mirror reflection. I’d showered and shaved and now I looked tired but a lot cleaner. Running my hands through my hair I now looked at myself in the full-length bedroom mirror. My hair wasn’t particularly long, but it wasn’t the short military cut that it had been only a few weeks ago. The suit itself was a luxurious dark blue, with a crisp white shirt and a pale pink tie complete with a silver tiepin and pocket handkerchief. In it I looked the part, even if I still was entirely sure what my role entailed. I suppose this was like the army, where appearance was of upmost importance. In both cases, blood is the only stain permitted. 

Acting on my own initiative this time I headed back downstairs, finding the car still waiting for me out front. I got back inside, and it started off again instantaneously. The whole thing was starting to feel like a well choreographed play.  
I’d have slept in the car if I didn’t feel so agitated. By this point I had wound myself up into believing this man was some terrible great creature lurking in the dark. It came as a slight surprise to recall the short, skinny man as he stood with his back to me in a rundown office block. I still shivered as he turned around however, and had to force myself to meet the icy fire of his gaze. 

“Take a seat Moran, you look exhausted,” He said in a patronising tone, smirking.

I slumped down onto the wooden chair next to the desk, but quickly shifted back into a more alert position, crossing my legs and interlocking my fingers whilst eyeing him warily. 

“I’ve been rather busy; might have a few jobs lined up for you by the end of it though.” 

This statement was vague and hesitant but it was obvious that he knew exactly what jobs he had planned for me. 

I didn’t reply. I wish it was because of some intelligent reason but I genuinely didn’t know what to say. 

“Been shoplifting have we Moran? Tut, tut…” He said mockingly.

“I thought you didn’t play by any rules?” I retorted, resentment flaring up from my lost card game. 

“Oh stop sulking Moran,” He said sharply. 

“You’re the one who said it,” I persisted. 

“Don’t listen to anything I say, not unless you’re going to really listen. Anyway, cards are trivial; I’ll soon make you forget about them.”

“Oh, yeah…?” I said stupidly. 

“Oh yes Moran, it’s funny how quickly one can turn their hand to crime isn’t it? Be it pick-pocketing a stranger to shooting one in the head.” 

At this he slid a photograph that lay on the desk towards me. 

“This man here, well, I’ve decided he’s no longer worth my time. What can I say? He’s just not my type!” He said, joking sickeningly.

“Head shot, messy kill, make sure it’s not an open coffin funeral,” He continued in monotone, now staring down at the floor, his face set and determined. 

“Happy birthday Moran,” He said, handing me a large bag. By its weight I determined that it was a disguised rifle case and opened it keenly, recognising the gun inside as an AWC 51mm sniper rifle. I took it out carefully, putting it together as lovingly as if I was a concerto flautist getting ready to perform. It took me a while for me to notice that the man standing in front of me was staring as hungrily at me as I had been at the gun. I suppose that is what I was essentially to him: his new gun. 

“Did you like your other present?” He said, stepping further towards me, placing his hand on my suit jacket sleeve and stroking the material. He went as far as my inner sleeve in order to feel the lining of the jacket. Smiling, he took hold of my right hand and, with his left hand, ran one finger across my palm. Was he attempting to seduce me, was he reading my fortune or did he now just see my hand as an extension of his own? The third seemed most likely, however creepy and mysterious he chose to portray himself. 

“The details are on the back.” He spoke softly, and indicated the photograph as he stepped abruptly out of the room.


	6. Waiting

Two days later I was arriving back at the hotel room, adrenaline surging from the kill. It had been just the same in the army- whether through terror, disgust or pleasure there was always a heighten sense of energy after killing another man. That was sometimes all there was to keep you going in the blistering, exhausting heat of battle. I’ve never felt so alive than with a dead body at my feet. But now I felt the exhilaration of a successful kill, only to be met by an empty, silent room. 

The life of an assassin wasn’t proving to be Hollywood material so far. The mini bar in my room remained stubbornly empty and half the channels on the television were blocked. I was always prone to rebel though and had put the heating on full blast ever since arriving back two days before, not even turning it off when I left for hours at a time on the job and consequently the room had started to feel rather like a sauna. Upon entering the room I pulled of my jacket and stripped off my shirt, enjoying the warmth and comfort of the indoors after the nights I had endured out on the streets. However dire those nights had been at least I’d had some freedom. I felt like a caged animal stuck in here, no doubt under observation through some hidden camera that I was still unable to find. 

I spent my time ransacking the room for this elusive electrical equipment, going down to the hotel bar and adding several rounds of drinks to my room’s tab, or lying on my bed ordering the most expensive dishes from room service- just waiting. 

New suits had arrived every day for me, a note pinned to each of them. This one-way conversation had been our only form of contact. I grudgingly found myself looking forward to the next note, much more than the new suits at least. No matter how sharp cut they were the suits all seemed far too ostentatious for my personal taste. But the notes were, quite pathetically, the highlight of my day. Some were flirtatious, others aggressive but mostly just instructive. I now had two more jobs to complete by the end of the week. 

Fuck, I still didn’t even know this man’s name and I was already willing to kill for him. How come I now wholeheartedly trusted the most untrustworthy man I’d ever met? All I know is I’d felt something immediate: maybe not a connection, but a reaction at least.


	7. Crime and Punishment

Unpicking the lock to the door of an untenanted flat I glanced around the corridor before breaking in. I pulled a chair against the door to make sure no-one could get in without my knowledge. Next, I scouted each room, and when I was certain the flat was secure and I was completely alone I began to set up my rifle by the window. I was pleased with myself for finding this place; it gave me a perfect view of the apartments opposite. 

I wasn’t so happy with the job I had to do though; the demands had gotten more extreme as the week progressed. This time, I’d been told to shoot a man in front of his family. The last target had been a 31 year old businesswoman, one of the youngest CEOs in the country and with one of the brightest futures ahead of her… until I put a bullet through her chest. All for some business deal. I’d expected the job to entail the murder of heartless politicians and generic city boys, evil fighting evil so to speak. But this, this was cruel. It wasn’t taking much to toughen myself to it though; I’d seen far worse deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan. So by the time I’d pulled the trigger on this last job, I didn’t even hear the screams of the little girl and boy as their father landed dead on their living room floor. 

“Good shot.” 

The voice came from directly behind me and before I even had time to move there was a knife pressed against my throat. 

“Thanks,” I said, feigning joviality. 

This seemed to anger him, as he pushed the blade harder against my skin. 

“You know, you seem pretty good at this, why don’t you just do it all yourself?”

“I might have to,” He growled, tilting the blade violently, “You were told to keep a low profile, chatting people up in the bar is not low profile!” 

The knife was removed from my neck, only to be slashed across my face. 

I stumbled sideways, landing on the floor. I tried to get back up but by this time he had grabbed my gun and was pointing it at me. It looked ridiculously large being held by him but I took note that he was holding it correctly so obviously did know how to handle a gun. 

“Well you sure know about low profile, you haven’t even told me your name.” 

“James Moriarty. And I’m only telling you because I’m about to kill you. You don’t seem to understand Sebastian; people don’t know my name for a reason. It’s either a winning lottery ticket or a death sentence. And,” He paused, shifting the weight of the gun slightly as it was too heavy for his shoulder, “I think we both know which one you’ve just received.” 

I remained still, staring up at him insolently. 

“You really don’t care do you? You’re not scared for your own life at all. I could shoot you right now and you wouldn’t even flinch,” He laughed quietly, a bemused look on his face. 

He lowered the gun and unloaded it expertly. But when I attempted to slowly get up he swung it around and hit me on the head with the butt of the gun, sending me crashing back to the ground. 

“Do you realise how many times you compromised my network in this one week? You’re going to need to learn some discipline.” 

I groaned incomprehensibly before mustering the words to reply, wincing as the pain built up in my head from the blow. 

“What’re you going to do? Tie me up and spank me?” 

“Oh I don’t need ropes; I’ve got something far better,”

With the same agility I had witnessed at the bar, he bent down to inject me with some unknown fluid. The effect took place almost immediately, although I remained conscious I began to loose control over my limbs. I lay there, immobile, panting harshly and heart hammering as though my body was fighting back, trying to make every movement still available to it. 

Moriarty stood above me: playing with the knife that had made it back into his hand…


	8. Dried Blood

“What the hell?” 

I hope up to the sound of a blaring alarm, feeling completely disorientated. I stumbled out of bed, and, whilst desperately trying to work out how I had found myself in the bed not to mention why I was shirtless, staggered to the door. I opened it only to find it led to an en-suite bathroom, the next door I tried opened onto a walk-in wardrobe. Finally, I made it out of the room and onto the landing. I almost tripped several times rushing down the stairs, for some reason my legs didn’t seem to be cooperating. I couldn’t smell any smoke, so assumed it wasn’t the fire alarm. Instead a strong smell of gas filled the air, the source of which was to be found in the kitchen. Instinctively covering my mouth, I ran into the room, throwing open the windows and turning off the gas on the fancy looking stove which had been left on unattended. At least I thought it was, until I saw a body lying on the floor. Panicking slightly, I bent down over him.

“James!” 

“It’s Jim,” He said softly, grinning vaguely.  
Relieved to find him still conscious, I picked him up and carried him out the room, through a pair of patio doors and into the garden. Dropping him down on the grass I was concerned to see his eyes had closed. How long had he been in there? 

I knelt down next to him and began checking for symptoms of CO poisoning: shortness of breath, heart palpitations… I couldn’t remember any others but he had those. All of a sudden he sat up, clutching his stomach as though in pain before turning over and retching. It was hardly a glamorous sight; certainly not one I’d ever expected to see from this suave criminal. 

Now he was conscious again I found myself yelling at him, swearing and questioning and haranguing him for information. 

“I was trying to make us breakfast, but I got distracted,” He mumbled, succumbing to dizziness by placing his head on my lap. 

“You look like shit,” He said, grinning up at me.

I glanced at my reflection in the glass door, seeing the blood stains that still covered my cheek and several cuts that were scattered across by abdomen. Only now did I begin to register the harsh stinging of these injuries, along with the memories of the day before.

“So do you,” I replied, “It’s lucky that kitchen is massive, you could have killed yourself.” 

“You like the place do you?” He asked, ignoring the second part of my comment and looking up at the large terrace house, “Just moved in. Welcome to our new home, Sebastian.”


	9. Reflection

That reflection in the glass, the image of me with Jim’s head in my lap was to haunt me for weeks to come. 

He sure wouldn’t let me forget the image of him lying motionless on the ground either; he was throwing himself into danger at every opportunity, whether it was in a meeting with clients or around the house. Every time I stopped or saved him he would greet me with the same smug smile. It was infuriating, much like the impossibly delicate and intricate plans he laid out for me to carry through. I was constantly proving myself with him. There was this expectation that I should somehow not be like everybody else. And just like at war, there is no room for making mistakes when you work for James Moriarty. 

I had become a talisman of fear within Moriarty’s crime ring. Yes, not many of his minions would actually know his name, but they would certainly know mine. I was the threat to be used in a business arrangement, the deterrent to disloyalty and the committer of the crimes so meticulously mapped out by Moriarty. 

It seemed like I was the only one to know that what we were doing was wrong. And that made me the worse of the two. Jim had this childlike ignorance that gave him complete conviction that what he was doing was right. At least that is what I thought at first until I arrived at the even more alarming conclusion that he did all of this simply for the cerebral thrill. 

To him, being bored was the more heinous offence. 

I realised that I was much the same. I was in it for the adventure of the kill and the thrill of the chase. A chase it certainly was, Jim’s disappearances soon became a regular occurrence. I didn’t have a key to the house so if I returned from a job to find he had gone, all I could do was wait. I wasn’t allowed to break a window or climb a fence, fuck no; I wasn’t even supposed to wait outside the house. Nothing that would “draw attention” was permitted. 

Not that I’d always pay heed to this, it was sometimes as though I was begging to be punished the amount of times I flouted his rules. His punishments were often even more exhilarating than the jobs he gave me. His reprimands were as cruel and insane as his commands. I found myself constantly craving his attention. I even began fantasizing about waking up in his bed, hung-over and bewildered as Jim recounted every detail of the night before; stroking circles lovingly against my bare chest. No, I wanted to be fully conscious and remember every kiss, every touch and every breath against skin. It would probably only happen once if ever at all and therefore I wanted it committed to memory. 

He was heartless psychopath and I loved him for it.


	10. Fun and Games

It was a relief to leave that house and move into a modern penthouse in central London. Moriarty had decided to indulge my Bond villain fantasy and spoil us to a mod-con filled bachelor pad overlooking the Thames. With its glass roof and many windows it didn’t have the claustrophobic feel that the terrace house did. Another advantage has that the open plan layout made it easier for me to keep an eye on Jim during his more manic episodes. Not that this seemed necessary, with the move much of Moriarty’s neuroses had disappeared and he had in fact become rather companionable. Well, it was either the move that had changed his mood or the fact that he’d just gained control over the Black Lotus gang, China’s largest smuggling group, in exchange for getting them into the UK. 

Even this didn’t satisfy him for long though and he was soon stalking around the newly purchased apartment sulking impatiently. I sat absent-mindedly shuffling a pack of cards; I’d finished cleaning my gun collection and, like Moriarty, preferred to be occupied rather than idle. 

Jim soon landed with a thud in the chair opposite mine watching me shuffle the cards. 

“Let’s play,” He said.

“Oh I’m not doing that again,” I said, laughing quietly.

“I did not cheat! Look I’ll prove it to you.”

“What and make me sell the guns in order to pay my debt to you? I don’t think so.”

“We don’t have to play for money, who really cares about money?”

I laughed again, looking round the expensive apartment pointedly. 

“Look,” I said, “There’s no point in playing if we don’t play for something.” 

“Well then, think of something more interesting!”

I paused, considering what Jim did really care about. 

“Strip poker,” The words were out of my mouth as soon as they crossed my mind.

“Are you hitting on me Moran?” He asked derisively.

“No, I just know that all you care about is your vulnerability or lack thereof.” 

We ended up playing several rounds of cards, I would change the game we were playing each time and Jim would have to work out the rules whilst playing. He figured it out every time and managed to win in an instant. By the end of the seventh game I was dressed only in my boxer shorts whilst Jim hadn’t even removed his tie. 

I was getting desperate. I didn’t care too much about the nakedness; Jim had barely seemed to notice. I just hated losing. 

Then I had an idea. 

I dealt the cards and we began the new game but partway through I changed a couple of rules so as to throw Jim off. I saw him frown slightly as the patterns stopped making sense. His confusion gave me time to collect my cards and finish. He growled in frustration at losing, removing his jacket and throwing it across the sofa. His state of irritation increased upon losing a second game and a third. By this point he was throwing cards down with such annoyance that they were skidding across the table. His tie had gone and so had his shirt and I was starting to see another incentive to carry on this game. For a housemate Moriarty had been relatively private. He didn’t care much for the importance of personal space, but I was yet to see him unclothed until now. He was very skinny, with prominent hipbones and hollow collarbones to match but his arms were surprisingly defined. 

Now to get his trousers off…

Jim literally howled in anger at losing again and I couldn’t resist laughing slightly. This aroused suspicion immediately and his brows furrowed further as he stared intently at me.

“If I find out you’re cheating…”

“Someone’s a bit slow,” I smirked. 

He pounced on me, grabbing the rifle that sat next to me and pressing it across my windpipe. I was yet to see him fire a gun, but he certainly found other inventive ways to use them as weapons. 

Choked laughter now escaped my lips and I knew this would send him to boiling point. It was as though he was going to evaporate entirely when I dragged my eyes across his body which was perched on my legs, blatantly eye-fucking him and licking my lips. He stood up looking mortified and then without warning hit my shins violently with the handle of the gun. I doubled over in agony, sliding off the sofa and collapsing on the floor with a cry of pain. I lay there; face down in the thick luxurious carpet listening for the next sound of movement. It came in the form of clothes being hurriedly put back on, footsteps away from the room and the front door being opened and closed with a short decisive snap. He had left me alone, the worst punishment of all.


	11. Lovesick

I’d seen Moriarty use sex to manipulate other people, but it was now obvious that he wasn’t comfortable with it being used against him. 

He didn’t return home for several hours and the next day he sent me to do a job in Vienna. 

“Can’t have too many shootings in London, even Scotland Yard might get suspicious.” 

This was what he had said when giving the order but I still couldn’t tell whether or not this was further punishment or just coincidence. 

He’d chartered me a private jet and my accommodation was five stars so I hoped that when I arrived back home all would be forgotten. I doubted it though, Moriarty was not a man to forgive or forget. I just hoped I wouldn’t be losing something I’d only just gained. 

The highlight of this trip was that I was actually being granted permission to socialise. Yes, I was travelling to Vienna for the week under the guise of tourist Sebastian Miller and that meant I had a part to play. On jobs like these I had license to do whatever else I wanted. Sebastian Miller could be a spoilt rich-kid and I would spend as much of Moriarty’s money as I liked or Sebastian Miller could be an international playboy and I would spend the nights in burlesque clubs. 

And yet on this trip I found myself lying in bed alone by 10’oclock every night that I wasn’t still out on the job, unable to sleep or concentrate even on the television. 

The job proved difficult, my target Lukas Bauer seemed to expect someone to be after him and had what seemed like hundreds of contacts within the city, which meant that there were plenty of backstreet studio flats and basements for him to hide out in. With the disadvantage of an unfamiliar city and a victim who had had a head start it took me a few days longer than usual to get the shot. For a while I had suspected that he had left the city altogether but patience paid off and on the fourth night he returned to his loft apartment under the cover of night- not that darkness could to throw off a bullet trajectory. 

What I most enjoyed about the trip was living out of a suitcase rather than the labyrinth that was my new wardrobe back at home. I’d received quite the education on the formalities and fashions of suit wearing from Jim. According to him there were different types of jackets, ones that remained buttoned all of the time, and ones that were to be unbuttoned when sitting down, others that weren’t supposed to be buttoned up at all… for fuck’s sake he’d have ones to wear in the shower if he could. ‘Any kind of suit you don’t have to wear at all?’ I had been surprised when this remark received no reproach other than a distaining look. 

It was the same look which drifted through my mind, as I stood in the shower, jerking off to thoughts of my boss. My free hand was held against my throat, pressing down to cut of my air supply just as Jim had done using one of my rifles the week before. The lack of oxygen not only brought back the memory, but made everything seem clearer, the water against my back, the twist of my right hand on my cock and the images in my mind: Bauer’s dead body, the feeling of triumph once I had finally taken the shot, Jim angry, Jim proud, Jim… fuck. 

The job was done, the gun disposed of and my luggage packed. But I couldn’t sleep. Instead I lay in bed alone, listening to the Austrian rain patter against the hotel room window, restlessly checking the clock every ten minutes and waiting for the morning to arrive so that I could board that plane.

“Damn you Jim,” I turned over, mumbling into my pillow, “You’ve turned me into a bloody lovesick puppy.”


	12. Confessional

Jim sniggered as soon as I walked in the door. He seemed to have given up on his hidden camera technique, he knew enough about me by now to read me instantly. 

“You look well rested,” He smirked, tapping away at my laptop. 

“You sure don’t, have you slept at all this week?” I said, peeling the laptop away from him. 

I sat down in the kitchen, set the laptop down in front of me and signed into my email account. 

It was mostly junk mail: a Pizza Express 2 for 1 offer, some recruitment agency I’d once desperately signed up with sending me job adverts I’d laugh at taking now and one from a Louise Golding. I didn’t recognise the name immediately but opened the email with curiosity. 

Jim sat dozing on the sofa, looking ridiculously overdressed in a suit and tie, jolting awake every thirty seconds or so before drifting back to sleep. It was quite likely that he hadn’t slept properly since I left; the dark circles under his eyes were proof enough of this. Honestly, he was worse than a baby when it came to looking after himself. At least an infant wouldn’t purposely try to do itself harm.

“Oh shit,” I said, scanning the words in the email, “Jim!”

He nodded awake.

“Oh… fuck,” I was speechless at what I’d just read. 

“What is it?” Jim asked, half impatient and half exhausted. 

I sprung from my chair, pulling of my tie as though it was choking me. I toyed fretfully with it in my hands until it was screwed up in a tight ball. All the time I stared at the screen in disbelief. 

“My unit, they’ve all been killed, one of the insurgent groups made an attack and bombed headquarters, what the, how could that happen the base is supposed to be top secret!”

I looked to Jim, desperate for information. I was aware he’d had some involvement in the conflict out there over the past few years so might know something that the soldiers’ wives did not.

He rubbed his eyes, but I could tell he was trying to hide a frown. 

“Do you want the truth?” 

“What do you know?” I said, trying not to yell. 

He didn’t speak and I growled in frustration. I turned back to the laptop, bringing up a newspaper report about it. It was big news; it must have been one of the largest casualties our side had suffered so far. 

“Apparently it was in Kandahar,” I said trying to absorb the scraps of information this pathetic attempt at journalism provided. 

“Malajat,” He said automatically, as though he was correcting the television.

“Jim?” I paused, confusion filling my brain like fog.

He got up from the sofa and walked towards the window. He was reflecting my agitated state of mind from moments before, as though it had spread by contagion. 

“Jim, what the fuck is going on? What do you know?”

The fog had cleared. A sickening feeling waved up inside of me as I realised what he might be hiding. I knew I had very little chance of getting it out of him though. Confession wasn’t his style. 

Then of course I remembered, he wouldn’t realise he’d done anything wrong. 

“Six months ago I arranged for a Coalition Forces’ army base to be bombed,” He said, his voice unusually monotone, “I found the man to scout the area for targets, I supplied the missiles… routine really, until I found out which base they were planning to attack,” He stopped, as though expecting me to interrupt. My silence however forced him to continue. 

“It helped in a way, I’d found out enough about you by this point to know your daily routine and that helped because it meant they could time the attack so as to cause the largest amount of casualties. But…”

“But what…?”

“But one of those casualties was going to be you, idiot!”

“So you pulled a few more strings and got me discharged? You didn’t think I’d mind that you ruined my name and career. You didn’t think I’d notice when my friends died. You and your scumbag schemes, you, you…”

I felt physically ill. How had I been so blind as to not see the true travesty and destruction that this man wreaked? The shock of reality was like bringing a mirror to my face and a spotlight on him- turning the mystery back into madness. 

“I saved your life Sebastian Moran. You owe me.”

I looked at him, appalled and disgusted. How could someone see things in such a twisted way?

“I don’t owe you anything.”


	13. Even

“You’re right, you don’t. I haven’t paid you anything for your services and you haven’t complained once.” 

“I don’t want your money.”

“And what was that about friends?” He laughed to himself, “You don’t have any. You see, you like to think it was all teamwork and comradeship out in big scary Afghanistan. But you’re kidding yourself. A sniper’s job is a lonely job. It’s cold-blooded and that separates you from everyone else. No matter how many lives you saved, how many enemies you brought down, you could never really be one of them.”

“I don’t want to play your mind games.”

“It was easier than expected you know, getting you discharged. They didn’t require much convincing at all. Not to say anything against your honour, no! You were a fine soldier, the best at your job,” He spoke lightly, but it was as though he was fighting with tooth and nail. 

Stepping closer to me, his tone reversed and became almost a whisper. 

“But something went wrong out there. Almost ten years of solid service, that must have messed with your head. It’s easier to cross boundaries when you’ve spent so long away from the normal parameters of society. And you were more than happy to cross a few more lines when you came back home. Not out of fear, no, you don’t feel fear like normal boring people, not enough to act on it.” 

In a fury, I grabbed at his tie, using it to throttle him. 

“Thank you for proving my point perfectly,” He choked, not fighting back. 

I punched him hard across the face, knocking him unconscious. 

I dropped him, shocked to find his light frame become a dead weight in my hands. 

His nose was bleeding heavily, blood trickling rapidly down into his mouth. If I left him lying there he’d likely drown in his own blood. Serve him right the fucking bastard.

I bent down swiftly, trying to staunch the flow of blood with my own shirt sleeve. It was soon drenched in warm red liquid, with his nose still bleeding profusely. My next step was to try and wake him, slapping his cheek, perhaps a little harder than necessary in my frustration, but he remained out cold. I tipped him into the recovery position, before leaving him to wake up. 

Now that I had stepped away it felt strange that I had actually bent down to help him at all. The man I now hated. I had rushed to his aid despite my humiliation. I had run blindly back to his side seconds after rejecting him. Why? 

Perhaps he was right; perhaps those words weren’t spoken in villainy but in truth. My disregard for morality was as strong as his at times, our perspectives as warped as mangled corpses. I was easily duped by lust and pride, but rarely love or fear. No human emotion pervaded our hardened minds. I was alone and as singled-out at he was. 

Two odds make an even. 

It took at least fifteen minutes for him to come round, and even then there was still a gentle flow of red running down from his nostril. 

“You better not have broken it,” He muttered, wincing in pain as he tentatively pressed fingers against the bridge of his nose. 

Unspoken threats were present in his speech but in all honestly he looked surprised to see I was still here. Personally, I was surprised to find that despite all my throbbing anger his vanity still managed to amuse rather than repel me. 

“Does this make it a tie?” He asked. 

“What, on who can piss each other off more? Pretty much,” I replied.

He smiled with the same knowing smirk that he had greeted me with at the door, “I do love a good game.”


	14. Inferno

It was hard to wipe the scoreboard clean though, I found myself distancing from him over the next few weeks. Our relationship became as cold as that between a debt payer and collector. 

We didn’t see much of each other, my specialist services weren’t ones required on a regular basis. It therefore struck me as curious when I found a missed call from him on a Thursday afternoon. Despite myself I went immediately over to his flat.

He had moved again, this time to a one bedroom studio flat in North London. I’d been staying in one of his many other hideouts. He’d once joked about owning property on every street of the British edition Monopoly board. Trust him to turn even that into a game. 

None of them he could call home, they are mostly safe houses, when you’re head of a criminal empire nowhere is a home.  
It wasn’t just consumerist fuck though; it was the sense of ownership that he adored. And it didn’t just extend to designer clothes and fancy apartments, to become a pawn in his game you had to sell your mind, your body and your soul. 

Perhaps it was my soul fighting even now against the binds that were grabbing hold of me, as my conscience tried to convince me to turn around and not walk up the flight of stairs that led to his apartment. But I was kidding myself, from the night we first met the contract between us had been signed and my job description written. As he continued to build his empire, it was my job to go about sealing any cracks that appeared in this realm of crime. 

It just happened that some of these cracks occurred inside Moriarty’s own head. And I had to be there with him to fix those too. 

A low whine met me as I walked in through the door. The front door was left unlocked, was he really that arrogant in thinking that no-one could ever get to him? 

The sitting room was a mess, the kitchen left untouched as usual. Cautiously, I walked into the bedroom to find the curtains drawn and Moriarty lying on the bed in semi-darkness. A handgun lay on the mattress just out of his reach, and his phone beside it. I quickly snatched up the gun, unloading it and putting it back in its case. This noise alerted him to my presence and he looked up at me. I expected the sort of petulance that usually accompanied his mood swings when they took a turn for the worst. Instead what I saw on his face was terror, as though the walls of his mind were caving in on him. He looked up at me, but then his eyes slid out of focus and were staring past me. He was lost in a nightmare of abstract thoughts, envisaging flames in the darkness.

“Jim,” I said, hoping to break him from his reverie.

I reached my arm out towards him and he grabbed hold of it, squeezing my wrist tightly with his bony hand, nails digging into my skin as he gripped harder and harder. He was a blind man lost in his head and I was trying to guide him back to reality. 

I climbed onto the bed; he didn’t relinquish his grip from my arm and was still staring at the blank wall as though it was a hidden wilderness. With my free hand I turned his face towards mine; pressing our foreheads together, so close I could feel his sharp, shallow breath against my skin. We could hardly have been more intimate and yet he was light years away. I continued to talk to him, an endless stream of anecdotes and encouragements. I must have been talking to him for over an hour, my voice becoming dry and raspy, but eventually his eyes met mine fully: big blinking brown eyes. 

It reminded me of my teenage years, talking round my older sister after her first bad trip on LSD. Talking her through the withdrawal she suffered when she first tried to cut her cocaine habit. It was a skill I’d well practiced by the time I’d joined the army, and have had to help a few people with post traumatic stress, alcohol dependency and the likes there too. People I couldn’t have given a fuck about, but needed to keep sane if only to ensure my own survival. Just talk them round, until they’re ready to let go.

As far as I knew, Jim never touched drugs or alcohol. That was the tragedy. These wounds weren’t self-inflicted; his mind wasn’t addled from substance abuse and overdose. It was an illness. And there was little to be done about it. His mind was a superior one, yes; it was an advanced well-oiled machine… that just happened to burn itself out at times. Not that Jim would ever fully admit to it. After rejecting his own heart his mind is all he had left. 

Just talk them round, until they’re ready to let go.

If anything, Jim’s grip on my arm tightened, as though I was the only thing anchoring him to reality. 

“Sebastian,” He murmured, reaching out his left hand to and placing it against my cheek. He stared at me as if mesmerized; tracing with a finger the creases of my eyelids, the dimples in my cheeks and the frown lines- accumulated evidence of my own thoughts over the years. The same finger brushed my lips, the delicacy of his touch contrasting with his vice-like grip on my arm. 

It didn’t require much movement for him to press his lips to mine. His whole body relaxed with the kiss, as though the moisture from our mouths was able to cool the fire in his mind. For me, however, it could only be fuel to the flames of confused desire that were now roaring ferociously; the blaze I’d spent weeks trying to put out was reignited in seconds. I wanted to push back, I wanted to bite back. I wanted to cling to him as tightly as he held me and never let go. 

But he still felt out of reach.


	15. Surrender

I had begun attempting to catalogue the many aspects of Jim’s personality, but with every conversation he seemed to manage to add another dimension to his character. He was a kaleidoscope of personality traits and vocal inflections. 

It was especially difficult to separate the manic phases from the supposedly sane ones. And so the question arose: what was that kiss? Was it his surrender? Was it merely a side effect of his vulnerable state of mind? 

I had pulled away, not letting it go any further. A dangerous move perhaps, I didn’t imagine Jim Moriarty would take rejection particularly well, but then again I wasn’t going to risk taking advantage of him. 

Or was he changing up the game? 

I hung around the poky flat for the next few days, if that kiss had simply been Jim’s cunning plan to get me to move back in then it had certainly worked. I kept up a constant supply of tea and toast for him, buttered toast being the only thing I could get him to eat. Unusually for him, he spent most of his time asleep, this latest episode having drained him of energy. 

We barely spoke; Jim was being unnervingly quiet. We spent a lot of time together though; Jim started seeking close contact whenever possible, it was like I’d formed my own gravitational field. So much so that when I woke up on the sofa on the 

Monday morning I found him fast asleep on top of me, the look on his face like that of a smug housecat.

The flat was fucking freezing, but I didn’t have the heart or the energy to move him and go turn the heating up. Instead I wrapped the blanket that had slid to the floor around the both of us. Jim’s head was resting against my chest, his stomach against mine and his right leg tucked between mine whilst the other dangled off the edge of the sofa. Sleeping in the living room meant that I didn’t have the luxury of curtains so morning light lit his slightly ruffled hair and formed shadows in the creases of his t-shirt. The noise of cars and pedestrians rose from the window, but Jim was unhearing and unmoving except for a slow heartbeat that I could feel against my own skin. So he was human, heart and all. Angelic even, a serene look for once taking the place of his usual devilish leer. 

It was what I had wanted. I had wanted him to need me. I had wanted to be his distraction. But the selfish, greedy, flawed soul I was meant that this still wasn’t enough.


	16. Distraction

This quiet, lethargic Jim soon lost its novelty and I began to crave the sinister scheming Satan who had been the one to seduce me in the first place. Luckily for me Jim was back to his usual self before the week was out.

Not so lucky for the dead body that now lay in a spectacularly filthy puddle of blood and rainwater. Blank eyes staring up at the sky and a shadow of cowardice etched across his face. 

The interrogation had gone smoothly, me holding the youth at gunpoint whilst Jim wheedled the information from him. He’d been a gang member, a school dropout who’d found himself rather out of his depth after crossing paths with Jim Moriarty. 

Once Jim had had his fun it was my turn. A single stab wound to the stomach and he was dead, we hadn’t even had to lay a finger on him. The death wouldn’t raise too much suspicion, to the police this would just look like yet another knife crime brought on by gang rivalry. 

“I’m sorry you couldn’t use your gun, you know it raises suspicion,” However sincere Jim was being, his apologies always sounded false, “Although I must say you’re getting quite adept with a knife!” He chirped. 

Ha, little did he know I’d been practising in my sleep every night; in vivid dreams that usually involved Jim, a knife or two and blood soaked sheets. Some of the time when he looked at me I thought he did know, hell, sometimes I fooled myself into thinking he had enough control over my mind to make me dream just that. 

It had started to rain once more; a steady drizzle, the kind that would fill the busy streets of London with the annoying umbrellas carried by equally annoying tourists and commuters. But the backstreets through which we walked were deserted. 

I pulled my hood up but Jim didn’t even seem to notice the rain, in his head he was already using this newly found information to further schemes and make new plans. He wore a red sports jacket with a pair of jeans whilst I wore a grey tracksuit. If we had been spotted on CCTV it certainly wouldn’t lead detectives to criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty.

Jim was so distracted on the way home that he looked genuinely confused at finding his clothes dripping wet after walking through the front door. I threw him a towel and he peeled off his jacket, the t-shirt underneath clinging to his skinny torso. 

Tossing my own soaked jacket onto the sofa I walked into the bedroom, wiping down the knife before going to put it back in its case. That is until a hand reached out and grabbed it from me. 

Jim was smiling; the pleasure of a kill doing a much better job than a prescription could in raising his spirits. 

“Oh we’re not finished with that yet, no, no,” He said, pulling at my t-shirt, “That was merely foreplay.”


	17. The Happiest Day of My Life

Considering that one conversation with Jim would be enough to leave you bewildered in a daze of unpredictability, sex left you quite literally on a knife edge. Jim was a ruthless, impulsive, tireless lover. It was jagged nails, and jutting hipbones and just plain volatility. 

I lay in bed feeling shattered, the morning light creeping in once more. Jim had wrapped his legs around one of mine, lazily biting at my skin until a purple mark rose up just below my ribcage, joining the numerous welts and scratches that were scattered across my body. The night had been a battle of willpower, a fight which Jim had decidedly won. 

And here he lay, claiming his victory over my body which he now owned entirely. Every movement between our bodies was enough to detonate explosions in my bloodstream, the friction of our skin setting my heart on fire. And the growing daylight did nothing to cool these flames. 

Sitting up, I pushed Jim back so he that he was lying with his back on the mattress. I trailed kisses down his body, scraping my teeth across his stomach. His head was titled sideways, and he was looking up instead of at me. 

“Did you want me to make breakfast?” I asked. I was slightly concerned by the uninterested look that now clouded his face. 

“Huh?” 

“Are you hungry?”

“Mm…” 

Sighing, I went to get up- stealing a kiss from his lips on my way.

Fifteen minutes later I brought through two plates of omelette, having taken it upon myself to add grocery shopping to my list of duties. 

I placed the two plates on the mattress, reaching into a drawer and throwing Jim a fresh pair of boxers. He ignored them, rolling over back onto his stomach and sizing up the two plates. He’d never actually finish any meal but would always take the bigger portion and thieve a forkful or two from my plate. 

Even cooking for Jim was a challenge; he’d rarely eat the same thing twice, finding it too boring the second time around. 

He seemed happy enough with it though, lying naked on the bed in a perfect image of debauchery. I lay down beside him, ravenously taking my first forkful from the plate. 

“Looks pretty sunny outside,”

“Don’t talk about the weather Moran, we may have had sex but that does not give you the right to make me endure small talk,”

“We should go out,” I said, shifting around so that I was lying next to him. 

“Out…?”

“Yes, as in outside,” 

“And why would I want to do that?” Jim asked, abandoning his plate and returning his attention to my body, a hand running down my back as he kissed my inner thigh. 

“Because I want to…?” I said, twisting my head round to look at him. 

He raised his eyebrows at his.

“I…because you can wear your new sunglasses?” I said, trying again. 

He rolled over, so that the back of his head was resting against the back of my thigh, contemplating the idea. He was no doubt mentally searching his wardrobe for an outfit to wear. 

The released pressure from my leg informed me that he had decided to get up. He went off to his wardrobe, pulling out a black polo shirt and getting dressed. 

I watched him intently, finding the process of Jim getting dressed almost as arousing as the reverse. 

Dressing myself, in a blazer and t-shirt, I thought back to Jim cutting me free from my clothes in the dark last night- the sharp blade of the knife grazing against my skin as he did so. 

“To the park,” He said sharply, as though ordering me.

“Yes Sir,” I said, grinning widely. 

We got the tube to Green Park, the first time I’d ever witnessed Jim using public transport. He even lay uncomplaining on the damp grass, our bodies parallel to each other. 

We talked all afternoon, leaning in for the occasional kiss, Jim every so often threatening pigeons with painful, drawn-out deaths. The hours collapsed upon each other and, still being early spring, dusk soon arrived. 

We sat up and I leaned over to pull off Jim’s sunglasses, taking the opportunity to stare into his eyes. Even this was thrilling; few people ever dared look into Moriarty’s eyes, let alone touch him… or fuck him. 

“Don’t,” He groaned.

“What?”

“Don’t go falling in love with me! Love is a game for fools.”

I turned away, frowning. It was infuriating. Sure Jim was always fond of ridiculous phrases and philosophies but now really wasn’t the time for that. It was too late. I am the fool who has loved Jim Moriarty since the first night I met him. 

“Sure boss.”


	18. Sherlock Holmes

A passion that had been set off like a wildfire was blown out like a candle. Fantasy became memory, with a brief interlude of paradise in between. 

Jim had found a new obsession, a new toy to play with. This plaything was consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. 

It wasn’t by accident that Jim had come across him; it was all by design. Much like how he had discovered me, Jim had sought him out. 

Jim was a man who intervened in fate. 

We sat in a cab on the way to Jim’s newest hideout in Grosvenor Square. Jim had spent most of the journey on his phone, but after a few minutes in silence he began to take interest in the cab driver. 

“How old are your kids now?” He asked, looking up at a photo the cabbie had on his car dashboard. 

I scowled; this so-called science of deduction had become Jim’s perpetual party trick in the last few weeks. 

“The youngest is seven,” Said the cabbie warily as he pulled up at our destination. 

“And do they know about your aneurism?” Jim said boldly, indicating for me to get out but staying in the cab himself, talking to the cabbie. He remained in there for several minutes whilst I waited dutifully outside. 

When he emerged from the vehicle he hardly acknowledged me, walking past with a cruel smile. I’d been on affection rations with Jim and it was making me crazy, I wanted to have him right here in the elevator, I wanted to pull him to the side in the corridor and kiss him against the wall, I wanted to slam the front door behind us and strip him of his suit- to remove all pretence and leave me with my perfect, perfect Jim.

“Do you have any family?” 

I don’t know why I asked the question. My brain was as hungry for information as my body was for his touch. And I think part of me was trying to distract myself from the way his throat twitched as he stood swallowing down a glass of water in the kitchen. 

“…Dead.” 

Somehow this reply brought about more questions than answers. 

I didn’t ask any more questions though. I know how he hates answering them. Jim hates answering questions; instead he likes to be the question. 

Leaving his glass on the worktop, Jim pulled out his phone again. He was no doubt checking for updates on the website of his newfound obsession. I hated the intensity of his gaze on the screen; it was unlike anything I’d seen before. No, I had seen it before, but only ever directed at me. 

He hadn’t even met the man and I was already jealous.


	19. Molly Hooper

“Really…?” 

Jim had answered the door to me, wearing nothing but a rather brightly coloured pair of boxer shorts. He was fresh out of the shower, his hair still slightly wet. 

None of this confused me as much however, as the tone of voice with which he was he was speaking on the phone. It was amiable and clumsy and the polar opposite of Jim Moriarty. 

I shot him a look and he returned it with a scowl. I continued to listen in on the phone conversation, finding it extremely entertaining. Jim was talking to a woman and it seemed as though they were arranging a date. 

“No you decide… go on… well how about The Fox? ...Are, are you sure? ...You don’t mind we went there last night… No I love it! Okay so meet you there in what, fifteen minutes? …Okay then! Bye! ...Bye! ” 

“It’s a means to an end,” He said, glowering at me once he’d hung up. 

I sat slouched on the sofa, sniggering. 

To my surprise, as always with Jim, he walked over to me and instead of the usual smack with the butt of a gun or whip with a belt he clambered onto my lap, kissing me fully on the lips. 

My arms instinctively wrapped themselves around his body, pulling his half-naked body closer to mine. 

With this kiss he was back in character, the speed of the change was as unnerving as it was thrilling. His now nervous hands fumbled at my shoulders, pushing his lips against mine with needy tenderness.

“Don’t wait up,” He said fondly, stumbling in his attempt to prise himself away from me. He pulled a v-neck t-shirt on along with a pair of chinos that lay on the floor, before leaving for his date. 

Of course I ignored this, how could I go to bed alone when waiting up meant the chance of Jim joining me later?  
It was one in the morning when he arrived back; it was the second time he’d gone out to a gay bar after going on a date with this Molly girl. He couldn’t just pretend to date someone to get close to Holmes, no he had to pretend to cheat on her as well. 

I’d drifted off to sleep on the sofa and when I woke up to the sound the front door opening the room was dark. I heard a giggling and for a panicked moment thought that Jim had brought someone back with him. Next I heard the rustling of a plastic bag and then the unzipping of trousers. I was about to get up and grab my gun when suddenly someone was between my legs, unzipping my own jeans. The surprise was enough to make me immediately harden and it only to a few minutes of awkward, ungainly blowjob before I was groaning and yearning for more. 

For the second time I heard the rustling of a plastic shopping bag, soon explained by the sounds of a condom wrapper and a bottle of lube being opened. This was another reminder that this was all part of Jim’s act. That and the reek of alcohol that smelt so unfamiliar on his usually sober self. This was Jim Zucco who worked for IT support at St Bart’s, who was socially inept, enjoyed crap TV and went out drinking on weeknights. Had my eyes not adjusted to the darkness so that I could see a glimpse of his face I might have not believed it was the same person. That was a lie; I couldn’t help but recognise the cold touch of his hands or the heat of his lips. 

His breath was heavy against my neck as I worked him open with two fingers. Even this was different, Jim was controlling in bed and last time had batted my hand away impatiently to do it himself. 

With a somewhat demure look, Jim turned around so that he was facing away from me before beginning to lower himself down onto my cock, desperate noises flying from his mouth. Jim even at his most passionate was always on the edge of indifference whereas, to put it crudely, this version of Jim was gagging for it. His rhythm was erratic and the breathless, gasping way in which he shouted out my name was all it took to drive me to the periphery of my own sanity. 

Bending him over so that his face was pressed against the glass coffee table in front of us I began to fuck him aggressively, determined to break this charade. This would be nothing to Jim and I was sure that if I pushed hard enough he would start to fight back. The din of shouts and screams made it worth it, even if the muffled yet stubbornly in-character yells of “Oh Sebby!” made me want to gag him. I bit at his shoulder, digging my teeth in as a reminder of who he really was but this resulted in him buckling under me, coming onto the floor. 

I carried on until we were both kneeling on the ground, his face now pushed down into the damp carpet. He was unable to hold himself up on his elbows and when I went to stand up even my own legs were shaking through both anger and exhaustion.  
Jim rolled over, giggling drunkenly, his boxer shorts still twisted around his ankles. He was slipping out of character now, but it was clear he had won once again. Why? In this perverse, one sided role-play Jim was able to have me… without me getting to him.


	20. John Watson

“You should see the way he looks at him; he’s almost as bad as you Sebastian.” 

I ignored the comment, and continued nursing the deep wounds on my back. Jim stood in the doorway of the bathroom, refusing to help. He seemed to have cheered up since the events earlier in the day, which had resulted in the deaths of half a dozen people, twice as many casualties and a series of tiger-like stripes carved into my back in a crazed fury. This meant he had returned to his favourite topic of conversation: his encounter with Sherlock Holmes. 

“Don’t you see? This is a good thing. Sherly will be far more up for a confrontation now. However much he claims to not care.” 

“I’m not sure that is a good thing.” 

Up until now I had underestimated Holmes’ abilities and had been shocked to see how quickly he’d solved the first few of Jim’s puzzles. Sure the trail had been right under his nose but he’d followed it as keenly as a bloodhound. And now Jim had put him on the scent he was sure to keep on it. At least he was a nuisance, at most a real threat to the Jim’s empire… to Jim. 

“But that’s why I’ve got you Sebastian, and anyway I’ll have a surprise waiting for him.” 

“Will it involve Semtex?” I said, wincing as I dabbed antiseptic on my wounds.

“And a certain army doctor,” He said gleefully. 

“Suppose that’ll make a change to the usual drivelling idiots,” I muttered, I was fed up of watching random people collapse in tears for hours on end. This sudden attack of violence from Jim when I had returned home had been the most exciting thing to happen to me all week. Perhaps a slight sadistic side of me had enjoyed blowing the seven storeys of flats up with a single bullet but the masochist in me enjoyed nothing more than stepping through the front door to be confronted with the sharp eyes, sharp suit and sharp temper of Jim Moriarty. 

Jim leaned lazily against the doorframe, looking down at his phone. 

“Oh Sherly, why the wait…?” He sighed theatrically. 

It was my turn to snap. 

“Stop this.”

“Stop what?” 

“Stop this, with Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Oh, is that an order Moran?” 

“Please,” I sighed. 

He scoffed, “What, are you worried Sebastian? You think he’s too good?” 

I tried to walk out of the room, regretting speaking out but Jim put his foot out to stop me. We were both standing in the doorway now, Jim looking angrier than ever. He knew I was only trying to protect him but pride meant that his reaction was as though I’d committed high treason. Well I assume it was pride; I always found it difficult trying to apply human emotion to Jim Moriarty. 

Jim glared up at me, his head and neck oscillating on his shoulders in their usual fashion. Even in the absence of a weapon in his palm my life had probably never been in so much danger. But I didn’t care, I was angry with him too… jealous even. 

“You’re going to pay Moran; you going to wish you never opened that idiot mouth of yours.” 

He went to slap me across the face, but I caught his arm. For a second our eyes locked and I grinned triumphantly but in an instant he’d jabbed his right arm hard into my stomach, winding me. Spinning me round so that he had me bent double in a headlock he whispered ferociously into my ear. 

“I need obedience Moran! Unquestioning obedience, do you understand?” 

I didn’t respond. 

“You stupid fucking animal,” He shouted, kicking me in the groin. 

I collapsed submissively, kneeling on the bathroom floor. When he went to slap my face this time I didn’t stop him. 

“That’s better,” He said, crouching down in front of me so I could fully see the soulless rage in his eyes, “You don’t know what I’m capable of Sebastian.”

His fingers reached out to touch the red mark on my cheek. 

“Then again,” He whispered, as his other hand crept its way to my back, “Maybe you do.” 

His nails dug themselves into the wounds he’d put there only hours before, pulling at the skin and reopening the deep cuts until they were bleeding profusely once more. Despite the pain, I forced my arms to remain passive by my side. 

His hand was now sticky with my blood and he wiped it clean on my jeans- carelessly brushing against my hard on.  
He stood up and at the doorway turned around to say something. 

“I’ve got Baker Street under observation; once they’ve finished their last few puzzles I’ll send Simms to fetch old Johnny Boy.”


	21. Irene Adler

“Yes I’m sure you’re very clever but your underwear costs even more than your shoes and you get paid even more than that to take both off,” Jim said derisively. 

Adler looked unabashed at this comment. Instead she picked up her phone, holding it up for Jim to see. 

“You’ll find I get paid in more than one way Mr Moriarty. Over the years I’ve gathered quite the collection of… resources.” 

“You said the name Holmes, that’s why I’m here,” Said Jim impatiently, showing disinterest by pulling out his own phone to send a text. 

“Mycroft Holmes. He has taken particular interest in one or two of the photographs I have possession of.”  
Adler’s eyes darted keenly between us, noting the poorly hidden look of surprise on my face and the renewed interest on Jim’s. 

“Mycroft Holmes?” Jim said, smiling slightly. 

“One of my clients, well she’s a royal…”

I was standing on guard, watching the pair of them talk from the entrance to the room, in the same position that I always assumed when attending meetings with Jim. I had been grateful for the perfect timing of her phone call last night, interrupting Jim’s altercation with Sherlock, but if all she was going to do was involve Jim with another member of the Holmes family then I didn’t have very much to be happy about. 

They weren’t talking for long, Jim’s disdain for the ordinary meant that he never had the patience for lengthy discussions. He was soon making his way towards the door, dialling the number of another client, his mind miles ahead of everyone else in the room. 

“So you’re the brawn to his brain then?” Irene said approaching me, “I suppose he pays you well,” She looked up at me with big eyes, bright and glittering- quite unlike the pair of eyes I’d grown accustomed to staring into these last few months. 

“Not as much as you’d think,” I said, eyeing her. 

“Ah well, you can put it on your expenses,” She said, slipping her card into my jacket pocket. Her hand lingered there and she slowly ran her fingers down my chest. Just as Jim ended his phone conversation and turned back around to face us. 

His expression was almost unreadable, a potential mixture of disgust, anger and pain. 

Before I knew it his back was facing me as he walked quickly towards the stairway.

“Are you two…?” Irene asked, blanching in shock. 

This gave me the confirmation that what I had seen on Jim’s face had been no hallucination. I ran after him. Fuck, this must be the hundredth time I’d seen him turn on his heel and walk away from me but I’d never dared to follow. 

“Jim!” I shouted once I was out on the street, not giving a thought to the still sleeping residents of Belgravia. 

I was just in time to see a glimpse of dark blue suit whip round the corner into a back road. I kept on running, soon catching up with him.

“Jim?” 

“Go back to your whore!” 

Was this really jealousy? 

I was level with him now, unsure what to do. This was like something couples would do in a romance; far too close to normality that it was a relief to have him swing around and grab me by the throat, pushing me roughly against the wall. 

“Aren’t pets allowed toys?” I said, before his grip tightened so hard that I couldn’t speak. 

I bared my teeth at him, snapping them playfully as though trying to bite him. 

He snarled at me, straining in his effort to hold me up against the brick. 

“You’re mine Moran.”

So this was jealousy, or an exaggerated caricature of that emotion. Jim was shaking in anger, his eyes watering in sheer frustration. I just wanted to… 

Pulling his head up to mine I kissed him on the lips. He kissed me back, teeth biting at my bottom lip and then his tongue scraping the roof of my mouth. 

Pride, jealousy- Jim Moriarty was something more than just flesh, blood and brain after all.


	22. Mycroft Holmes

I sat in the empty apartment, waiting for the man I was calling to pick up his phone. 

“Who is this?” 

“Never mind that, where’s the boss?” 

“You think I’m gonna tell ya?”

“You’ll get a bullet in the brain if you don’t.” 

“He was taken, the government got him. They killed Moran and kidnapped the boss.”

“…Moran? What do you mean?” 

“Sebastian Moran, he’s dead.” 

“Shit.”

“I know man. It’s some terrorist link they’re suspecting him of. So it’ll only be 28 days.”

“They haven’t got a clue what they’re dealing with by the sound of things. Thanks Barnes.”

So I had been right not to be happy about the idea of Adler involving Jim with the Mycroft Holmes. The Ice Man as Jim referred to him. I wonder whether he was ready for the fire of the devil. 

*

“Let me in, idiot!” 

I rushed out of the bedroom but by the time I reached the entrance hall, Jim had already broken the lock and forced the door open. 

“Hullo Sebastian.” 

“Jim.” 

He wandered past, kicking empty takeaway boxes and dirty laundry on his way to the kitchen.

“Honestly Sebastian, your hospitality is worse than Belmarsh,” He grumbled, not bothering to close the door of the empty fridge. He walked back over to me, his face looking gaunt and heavy with stubble. The smile it held only made him appear even more emaciated. 

His clothes where filthy and sweat-stained: white t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms.

“My latest disguise, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government,” Jim said, gesturing at his outfit, “One of their many interrogation techniques.” 

“So they tortured you?” I said, unashamedly hungry for details. 

“Oh hardly, no, it was really rather tame. I’ve had worse things done to me in bed,” He said, running his nails along my arms, “If anything it turned me on.” 

Pulling me along by my shirt collar he led me into the bedroom, stumbling slightly in his sleep deprived light-headedness along the way. 

“I didn’t know you were into necrophilia. I’m supposedly as dead man.” 

“Oh yeah, sorry about that… I missed the funeral, didn’t I?”

“What funeral?” 

“Your funeral. I’ll visit the grave if you insist.”

“What the hell Jim?” 

“Oh shut up and let me fuck you.”

He leant up to kiss me roughly, but lost balance, barely conscious due to over-exhaustion. I caught him before he fell, holding him close. At first he went to pull away and then succumbed, nuzzling my warm chest sleepily- part fierce pit-bull and part spoilt kitten. 

He reeked of sweat and his hair was unwashed, there was no trace of the usual expensive cologne. I burrowed my nose in between his neck and shoulder, breathing in deeply. It triggered memories of the night, months ago, when post-murder thrill had led me for the first time into his bed. That had been Jim stripped bare, just as he was now. It had been Jim stripped bare by choice: just him and me, villainy without heroism, a game without an end. 

Jim had fallen asleep standing up, his head lolling against me in fatigue. I lowered his unwashed body onto the unmade bed, and then sat watching as he slowly wriggled onto his stomach, limbs sprawled across the mattress. I couldn’t take my eyes of him, not after being deprived of him for almost a month. Eventually, tiredness also caught up with me and I ended up curled up at the bottom of the bed, legs hanging over the edge, like the besotted pet I was. 

*

It didn’t take long for Jim to abandon me once more; he was gone again before a fortnight had even passed. 

It was time for ‘Jim the tourist’ to make his debut, and the stage Jim had chosen was the Tower of London. 

“You know what Sebastian; I think I could do with a bit of an advertising campaign.” 

Truth was this had nothing to do with that and everything to do with the Holmes brothers. If anything, the month spent in interrogation had intensified Jim’s interest in Sherlock to something beyond even obsession. In fact, he no longer took any interest in the rest of his criminal empire, letting it run mostly on auto-pilot. The only action he took was recruiting two new gunmen, supposedly to cover up the fact that Sebastian Moran was actually still alive. Otherwise, he spent his time fixating on his ‘problem’.

*

This ‘Crime of the Century’ (as the newspapers labelled it) probably seemed reckless and crazy to the outsider, but the whole game had actually been calculated to precision. All Jim’s unwitting pawns played along perfectly, from the bribed security guards and the blackmailed jury to the great detective himself. 

I’d been left with the instruction of observing 221b, Jim having had hidden cameras installed in there for that purpose. It was a task I neglected severely, they managed to both bore and infuriate me simultaneously- it would be so much simpler if Jim would just allow me to train my gun on the pair of them. 

I did pay attention however, on the day that Jim was released from prison and made a visit to Baker Street himself. 

Here was Jim laying out the clues for Sherlock, readying him for whatever it was he had planned: “Every person has their pressure point, someone they want to protect”. He was baiting him to finish the game with him: “I owe you a fall Sherlock”. He was even laying the trap: “The man with the key is king”. 

“I should get myself a live-in one, it would be so funny.”

There was only one explanation for this, and I’d been suspecting it for a while: Jim was trying to protect me. He didn’t want Sherlock Holmes to discover that Jim Moriarty had his very own John Watson. He didn’t want anyone finding out his pressure point.


	23. Kitty Riley

Again Jim disappeared, this time for three whole months. I tried to tell myself I couldn’t care less, but ended up spending much of my time watching the fuzzy image of 221b’s sitting room in hope that Holmes or Watson would mention something as to Jim’s whereabouts. I stuck around at our apartment, like a child who had been told to go back to the last place they saw their parent when they were lost. I had checked every safe house and meet-up point I knew of, but there was no sign of him. 

When I did hear from him again, it was with his name blazing on the front page of a newspaper. Not his name exactly, but I recognised the old alias immediately: Richard Brook. 

So this was his plan, defaming Sherlock Holmes via newspaper exposé. And not just that, only earlier that day I’d seen Holmes arrested and now on the run, framed for a kidnapping. The article, said to be published this weekend was written by journalist Kitty Riley. This was my lead. 

It didn’t take me long to track down where she lived and sure enough after a few hours stake out I saw Jim exit her front door and walk out into the street- wearing scruffy jeans and a loose cardigan. He started up his car and I followed him, but he only drove a few streets away to the supermarket. After picking up some groceries he returned to her flat, I parked the car out of sight around the side of the building, preparing for another long wait, regretting not accosting him whilst I’d had the chance. 

Not five minutes later, I heard a shout and, like a cannonball- Jim shot out of a window and onto the street. He looked around, spotted me and sprinted towards the car- leaping in and yelling.

“Drive!” 

I started of the engine, picking up speed before he even had time to shut the car door. 

He was breathless, grinning maniacally and as soon as he’d recovered he started to laugh, tilting his head upwards as though blinking back tears- softy, breathy giggles escaping his lips,

He didn’t even seem to question my presence outside Kitty Riley’s house, as though he always knew that I’d catch up eventually.


	24. Unspoken

I drove back to our apartment and we walked up the maze of stairs in silence. 

“The science of deduction,” Jim announced, “Pretty useless when no-one believes in you anymore. Rather futile when the clues you’re following are entirely fictitious.” 

From the front door he walked towards the bedroom which led onto a small balcony. Sliding open the door he stepped out into the night air, shivering slightly either due to the cold or exhilaration. 

“I’ve finished him Sebastian. Or a least I will do,” A smile crept onto his face for a brief moment, the anticipation clear in his voice, along with a hint of mania. 

“Sherlock will know what he has to do; he’ll know he has to jump.” 

Jim leaned against the rails, staring out over the streetlamps and parked cars. 

“So dull,” He murmured, “So fucking boring!” He shouted these last few words.

“Tell me this is dull,” I said, grabbing him from behind, pulling him against me. 

“Oh Sebastian,” He said, taking my hand and pressing it to his lips. 

His entire body felt tense, as though it was as worked up as his mind and when my hand, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans, brushed against his bare skin he let out a hiss- but tilted his head back up pleasurably as I stroked him off. He moved against me so that the denim jeans rubbed roughly against my own trouser leg, the friction and the feeling of his nails digging themselves into my wrist enough to make me come, biting down into his cardigan clad shoulder as my body shuddered in ecstasy. 

Once I’d recovered enough I tried to speak but he silenced me with a ruthless kiss, pushing me back inside, suddenly dominating proceedings. We didn’t even make it to the bed, Jim pulling off my trousers and falling to his knees, licking away the come whilst running his nails ferociously down the backs of my thighs, drawing blood. What would appear a thoughtful gesture was purely selfish desire; as soon as I was hard again he stood up, wiping white liquid of his lips before I had the chance to kiss it off him. He clambered onto the bed pulling of his own clothes and spreading his legs in an unspoken order for me to fuck him. 

I pulled a bottle of lube from the drawer, kneeling down and covering my fingers in the liquid. Jim’s entire body wriggled at the cold touch of the liquid; the sight was enough to make my cock twitch. There was silence between us. The only sound made was the slight hitch of Jim’s breath in discomfort when I scissored my fingers inside of him.

Our eyes met and he fixed his gaze on me, unblinking as I pushed inside him, staring so intently it was as though he was observing the nerve connections taking place in my brain. I held eye contact with him, as though hoping that he would read in my mind the concerns I knew better than to voice. His own eyes stared back as though daring me to speak out- until we both threw our heads back, orgasm tearing through our bodies. Until now we were Afghan desert on top of Arctic plain but suddenly it was hot and cold air striking in a storm- shouts as loud as thunder, collapsing in a heap as though we’d been struck by lightning.

As soon as I pulled out, he flipped us over, flattening me against the mattress and clambering on top of me. The blood I could feel trickling down my leg from his scratch marks was no doubt seeping into the sheets. I was breathing heavily, dazed by the thrill of having Jim back, to not only be by his side, but to be in his bed. I went to kiss him but he pushed me back down, pulling off my shirt and pinning me down whilst he bit at my skin, replacing a bite marks that he’d put there months ago and were still yet to fade. His teeth sunk down deep into my skin, tearing at the already damaged tissue so viciously it would no doubt leave scars. 

“I need answers Jim,” I gasped, in both pain and pleasure. 

“And I need a job doing.” 

He explained the plan as we dressed. Three gunmen, three victims- make sure you’re ready to shoot if Sherlock doesn’t jump. 

He didn’t go into details, I knew the drill. 

“Take a gun,” I said, handing him my Beretta 92FS Inox. 

He pocketed it wordlessly. 

“I don’t want you dying on me,” I said pathetically. 

“You too,” He said stiffly, going to the cupboard and taking out my old AWC rifle.

“Might come in handy,” I said jokingly, taking it from him with a smile. 

Trust Jim to remember, remember the very gun he’d first given me on our second meeting. 

I should have known then.


	25. An Explanation... Please

The motives of this man have always been a mystery to me. 

An order never needs an explanation. 

He would never do something for just one reason. Ten birds with one stone.

He was prepared to do anything, as long as it distracted him from his own mind. And if blood or pain was the price to pay then so be it. 

No wonder he couldn’t trust other people, he couldn’t even trust himself. 

I used to wake up sharply after hearing the click of a gun in my sleep. I’d wake up covered in sweat and panting for breath.  
Now I wake from dreams of hearing his heartbeat. I wouldn’t call either of them nightmares; there is too much longing in them to be nightmares. 

I loved him: unwaveringly, sometimes even unwillingly- as though he had a gun permanently trained on my aorta.

I really did once have the childish idea that in the right side of my chest you could find some sort of heart shape just like those found of greetings cards and on the other side was a treasure chest that stored my soul. I never expected however, to loose belief in the heart so much that I saw it only as an organ. A vital one yes, I know that from my line of work, but unfeeling and anatomical. But I still believe in the soul, I have to. Not in some crude box form, but as the truth within a person. I had to, because how else could I explain how two corrupted, debauched souls such as ours belonged together? 

I kissed those lips that the bullet passed through; a tear seeping from my eye and onto his cheek. I traced my finger through the pool of blood that pillowed his head. I’d never felt more alive than with his dead body at my feet- the only problem being that I now wished that I was dead too.

They’re like two spinning tops: James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. Genius minds, ones that worked so much faster than everyone else. They’d appear as a bewildering blurs to the unaccustomed eye, utterly fascinating to watch- but precariously balanced. Dangerous. They were bound on their paths… until those paths collided. Then they struck each other violently, spinning out of control, faltering, and toppling. 

Momentum is gained then lost. 

Stillness remains. 

I still expect an explanation. Why?


End file.
